


i can't control you, i don't know you well

by cosmicpoet



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: (again; kind of), (kind of), Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mind Games, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 20:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13348476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Ouma wants to understand Saihara. More than anything, he wants to show Saihara that he's not just a pathetic liar; he has value. But there are hidden feelings beneath all of this, and Ouma rolls the dice and plays the risk of exposing himself whilst trying to help Saihara. He wants to be loved, he wants to be used, and he knows that those two ideals can't coexist. As long as he has information that Saihara wants, he can be useful; he can be worth something.





	i can't control you, i don't know you well

Ouma’s hand shakes as he picks up the thick whiteboard pen, and he slaps his arm to control himself. He’s never felt so _stupid_ before; nine people have died and he still hasn’t figured this whole thing out. Of course, he’s closer than any of the others - he hates them, for their useless positivity and their ignorance alike - but he’s never been able to see things in anything other than black and white. Either he beats the mastermind and proves that he’s worthy, or he dies; there is nothing else left for him in this world.

This world; _this fake world._ He knows that the flashback lights are most likely a lie - he’s an expert on that subject, and there’s no way that something could specifically make the entire group remember a collective memory, unless the memory were already somewhat implanted into the light; by extension of this, he can assume that the lights themselves contain that lies that fuel this killing game.

Were he normal, he would share his findings with the group, but then he’d be failing himself. With an existence built on lies, so far buried that he’s unsure what lies beneath the multitudes and the layers, he can’t share what he knows with people who are so easy to read. Then, he’ll have nothing, he’ll _be_ nothing; if he can’t single-handedly stop the killing game, he may as well let them all die, himself included.

He writes _‘trustworthy’_ underneath Saihara’s photograph on his whiteboard, and then throws the pen across the room.

Thinking of Saihara is strange - he can’t seem to figure him out. Initially, he thought that detectives were easy; driven by justice, intelligent, self-reliant. But Saihara is… _different._ Of course, his sense of justice pervades in class trials, but he was willing to lie to protect Akamatsu, even if it meant sending the rest of them to their deaths. He’s clever - wildly so - but he’s emotional; Ouma suspects that the reason he hasn’t figured this out already is because he doesn’t want to confront the possibility that lies are the foundation of this world. And as for being ‘self-reliant’…he’s seen Saihara, and he’d have been nothing without Akamatsu, he’d still be nothing without Momota. Saihara trusts too much, and forms bonds so easily - he’s in a game where trust gets a person killed.

Although, for a brief moment, Ouma can relate.

With his knowledge held tightly in his mind, he treads out of his room lightly, knowing that it’s well past the nighttime announcement - he knows exactly where he’s going, yet he doesn’t know why. Half of him hopes that he’ll stumble upon Monokuma and get him to trip up somehow; like his existence within this game is part of something larger, where he can finally no longer be a pawn, and put his mind to the test.

And he knows, _he knows_ that this isn’t love - it can’t be. It can’t be something beautiful, not when he’s a part in it; he’s known for his whole life that everything he touches will become corrupted, and if he can’t change that, he’s at least learned to reconcile himself with it. But with Saihara, he can’t seem to shake the thought that in another life, they could have been beautiful - the world would be filled with majestic lies and they would be enamoured with the illusion of genuine happiness.

Ouma shakes his head; he knows that nobody can be genuinely happy around him. It’s just how he is - as far as he knows, it’s how he’s always been. He thinks of DICE, and how being a leader gave him meaning, but that’s all gone now, just like every good thing. Sometimes, he wants to live alone, forever, with a garden full of herbs and a cupboard full of pills to make him feel okay, but then he remembers that he’s not destined for anything genuine or beautiful; if he truly wants to envelop himself in lies, he has to accept that nobody will ever want to be around him. It’s for their own good, though. Perhaps he’ll end the killing game, and stay here afterwards - they could all leave, continue their lives, and Ouma would stay rigid, rotting with the weeds and the broken windows of talent labs.

He thinks of talents, now, and how he’s unsure if any of them are truly genuine. There’s something in his mind - something obscure - that he can’t reach, like a memory of a drowned man, telling him that this is a place built on far more falsities than he will ever be. In some way, this killing game has reached admirable heights, but he’s tired of pretending to enjoy it. Sometimes, he just wants someone to be _honest_ with. But being honest would ruin his plans, and it would be truly selfish of him to prioritise his human needs over the lives of everyone here. Truthfully - a word he doesn’t often use - Ouma isn’t even sure that he’s wholly human.

Still, when he arrives at Saihara’s door, he knocks with purpose. He lies to himself, telling himself that he knows why he’s here, that he at least has a _reason_ for bothering Saihara at such a late hour.

The door opens.

“O-Ouma?”

“That’s me!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” Ouma says, thinking _‘oh, shit’_ in his mind, “just wanted to see you!”

“That’s a lie,” Saihara says, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Ouma laughs.

“You know me, like, _soooo_ well. Ok, fine…can I come in?”

“Are you going to say anything I actually care about?”

If Ouma hadn’t built at least five different fronts over his true personality, he would have cried.

“Yes,” he says.

“Fine,” Saihara replies, and lets Ouma into his room. Surveying his surroundings, Ouma takes in how wildly different their rooms are. Saihara’s is messy, but has nothing of real importance; he’d shudder at the thought of Saihara seeing his own room, tactical and terrible - perhaps Ouma himself would be more befitting of being the Ultimate Detective. But he doesn’t want to negate Saihara’s talent, he just wants to keep him talking. That’s all - just keep him talking. He swallows his guilt, his pride, his anguish.

“So,” he says, “I wanted to play a game with my beloved Saihara!”

“A-A game? Ouma, I’ve had enough of your games, I -”

“Oh no, this one is good! A little…quid pro quo of sorts.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because,” Ouma laughs, bitterly, “I know some things that I’m sure you’d like to know, too.”

“Why would you do this? What could you possibly gain from me, in return?”

Ouma thinks _‘your love’,_ but pushes that aside.

“Well, Saihara my love,” he says, his voice one of mocking; a betrayal of his emotions, “perhaps I just want to end this killing game as much as you do.”

“Bullshit. You want something.”

“Then ask me - that’s how this works. I ask you something, you answer honestly, then you get to ask me anything!”

“And you’ll answer honestly?”

“I’m a liar, Saihara, not a cheat.”

“Fine.”

“Sooo,” Ouma says, “you start!”

“Uh,” Saihara pauses, “do you know who the mastermind is?”

“Nope! My turn. Did you love Akamatsu?”

“W-What? You can’t ask that!”

“No fair, Saihara,” Ouma pouts, “we didn’t say that anything was off-limits.”

“Well…that is.”

“C’mon! I _promise_ I have information that’ll help you. Just answer my question.”

“Fine,” Saihara sighs, defeated, “I guess…I guess I did. Let me ask you - what do you get from making me suffer?”

Ouma freezes. Saihara thinks that he’s making him _suffer?_ This thought grasps its cold, clammy hands around his heart, pushing it against his chest and making him choke, an untold pressure pushing down on his entire body.

“Is that your question? I guess,” he says, ignoring how terrible he feels, “that I don’t enjoy making you suffer _per se,_ I just want to bring out the best in you. Like…y’know…you shine under stress. I’m just here to give you that push.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Shuichi says, deadpan.

“My question,” Ouma says, “is…what will you do if Momota dies?”

“W-What? Ouma, you’re not…planning something, are you?”

“You don’t get to ask me a question! You have to give me an answer. Jeez…you’re terrible at this game.”

“Oh, yeah, right. I’d be devastated if he did. He means a lot to me, especially after…well, you know. Are you planning to hurt him?”

“No! I mean, I have plans, and he may get hurt, you all may, but that’s not my end goal. My turn again,” Ouma laughs.

“Wait - I haven’t asked you a question.”

“Yes you have, you just asked me if I was planning to hurt Momota!”

“That wasn’t…uh, whatever. Just get this over with.”

“Saiharaaaa,” Ouma whines, “it’s no fun playing if my opponent isn’t into it! Anyway, I want to know, why are you still playing this game with me?”

“Because I want to know what you know. About the killing game, the mastermind, about it all. And…as much as I don’t trust you…I know that you’re clever.”

“I’m bored now,” Ouma says, “let’s play another game.”

“Wait, that’s not fair! I never got to ask a final question.”

“Too late! I want to play something new.”

“If you’re going to be intentionally difficult,” Saihara says, “then just leave me alone.”

Ouma fake sobs; it’s easier to conceal his true emotions if he puts up a front. Truly, he hates himself - it’s hard not to, when all he wants is to end the killing game _and_ help Saihara, and the opportunity to do both of those things has practically presented itself to him on a golden platter. He could tell Saihara everything that he knows, and let him work the rest out with his sharp intellect, but he won’t do that - he won’t do that, because then he’d be being honest, and moreover, Saihara would have no need for him any more. If he were to give Saihara the puzzle pieces he needed, then Ouma himself would become worthless; he knows that as long as he knows withheld information, Saihara will still, in a strange way, need him.

And he doesn’t want to let go of that.

“Saihara,” he says, “I genuinely do have information!”

“Then just tell me. Your life is resting on this, too, you know?”

“I don’t care about my life,” Ouma says, ignoring how much of his true self he exposes with that statement, “but I want to ruin this killing game. So here’s an idea - I give you a task, and if you can complete that, then I’ll tell you a piece of important information!”

“I’m not being complicit in one of your little schemes, Ouma. I saw what you did to Iruma and Gokuhara. I want nothing to do with you.”

“It’s nothing like that! Really, you wound me, Saihara,” Ouma ignores that his chest feels like he’s just been stabbed, “I just want to offer you a trade.”

“A trade?”

“Yeah, a trade. If you hold my hand, I’ll tell you something about this killing game that you don’t already know.”

“Oh, er,” Saihara falters, “I guess I could do that.”

He gently intertwines his fingers with Ouma’s, and Ouma’s heart, for a solid moment, stops. For the first, real time, he allows himself to look at Saihara - he’s wearing shorts and an oversized white t-shirt, his hair is sticking up at all angles, but that one piece at the top of his head is still as upright as always. Even though they’ve been talking for a little while, Saihara still looks tired - Ouma supposes that the killing game, and bearing the weight of class trials on his shoulders, is getting to him. Trying not to blush, he looks down at Saihara’s hand, holding his own, his soft palm pressing slightly against Ouma’s hand; he desperately resists the urge to tighten his grip and never let go.

“Oh…you actually did it,” Ouma says, “congratulations, Saihara! I didn’t think you had the balls.”

“It’s just hand-holding,” Saihara replies, “it means nothing. So you’ve got what you want, now tell me what you know.”

Just like that, the illusion shatters.

“O-Okay,” Ouma says, cursing that he can’t keep up his apathetic demeanour, “well…the flashback lights probably aren’t accurate.”

“What?”

“That’s all I’m telling you,” Ouma smirks, “you’ll need to do something else if you want to know more.”

“O-Oh, right. Okay.”

“So, kiss me on the cheek, Saihara! I want to see what Akamatsu loved so much about you!”

“I-I never…kissed her, Ouma.”

“But you wanted to! And she probably wanted to kiss you, too, so go on - or maybe you don’t want to know the information that could save us all?”

“N-No I…I want to know. Don’t laugh at me. I’ve never…done this before.”

When Saihara moves closer to him, Ouma notices that he hasn’t let go of his hand. He allows himself to think, for only a second, that Saihara is enjoying this, and he’s so caught up in that thought that he almost misses Saihara brush his lips against his cheek; _almost._ The moment Saihara’s lips make contact, Ouma’s mind explodes - he’s never felt anything like this before; it’s like he practically feels his walls crumbling, and he’s full of conflicting emotions. He is unsure whether to hate or love the feelings that Saihara provokes within him. As Saihara pulls away from the kiss, Ouma thinks that he may just be breaking apart; he only hopes that he can fix himself back together into something more coherent.

“Well,” he says, ignoring his feelings; he promised Saihara information, after all, “don’t you think it’s strange that one flashback light can trigger the same memory in all of us? That would only be possible if the memories themselves were at least a little contained within the flashback lights. And if that’s the case, then it’s surely possible that the mastermind could implant any scenario into a flashback light, and we’d see it as a memory. We could be remembering lies, and thinking of them as the truth.”

“O-Oh,” Saihara says, “that…makes sense.”

“There’s only one more piece of information I have to give you,” Ouma says, “so I’m afraid our little game ends after this. But in return, I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to say what it is, specifically, that I want you to do. I’m going to tell you the information first. After that, you can either kick me out of your room, or do something, anything; the choice is yours.”

“R-Right. Tell me, then.”

Ouma pulls Saihara closer to him, so close that their noses are almost touching. He looks for a little too long into Saihara’s eyes, trying desperately to see what feeling hides within them; if only he could just _understand_ whether his feelings were reciprocated, he’d feel so much more at ease.

“Well,” he says, tearing his eyes away from looking directly at Saihara, “if the flashback lights are false, then that means that the mastermind could control anything we think. For all we know, there are people watching us. A killing game is no fun if there isn’t an audience.”

“We’re…we’re being watched?”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Ouma says, “and that’s all I have to say! I’ll be off now. Unless…”

Before he can finish that sentence, Saihara pulls him close into a kiss. Whether it’s payment for the information, or something more genuine, Ouma doesn’t know - moreover, he doesn’t particularly _care,_ because Saihara is kissing him, and he finds it hard to believe that Saihara hasn’t done this before, especially when he knows exactly how to move his lips to make Ouma practically melt further into him. Instinctively, Ouma wraps his arms around Saihara and doesn’t pull away; he never, ever wants to pull away. But Saihara does, eventually. They part.

“W-Was that…okay?”

“Yeah,” Ouma says, focusing all of the energy in his mind on not stuttering or blushing, “that was…good.”

“Really?”

“That’s…a lie.”

“Sure,” Saihara says, and pulls Ouma to the door, locking it so they’re both on separate sides of an intangible barrier; the door isn’t the only thing keeping them from each other, any more.

As he’s walking back, Ouma leans against the wall for a moment. He traces his lips gently with his fingers, imagining that Saihara is kissing him once more.

He just can’t seem to figure Saihara out.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I wanted to write something focusing on Ouma and Saihara. They're so interesting! Let me know if you liked it in the comments, please.
> 
> Title from 'My Manic & I' by Laura Marling. It's quite a saiouma song.


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